White Shadows and Black Reflections
by Andartha
Summary: Somebody gets an nasty surprise, Crawford gets rather more than he bargained for, Farfarello catches a serious case of sanity and Schuldig finds himself on an uncertain road. Farfcentric. Some BradShu. Warnings: bad language, violence, hints of slash
1. Warning & Disclaimer

Disclaimer:

Nope, I don't own Weiss Kreuz. They belong to Project Weiss. I'm not making money with this. I'm just playing with Weiss (and Schwarz) for the fun of it. Anyway, Thank you Takehito-sama!

This is the intro to a fanficiton that's been jumping around in my brain for the last few weeks crying "Here! Over here!" in a really loud and obstinate manner. So tonight I finally gave in and got on the keyboard. A mighty bit o' thanks to Zoey and to Mandalorian1 for patiently listening to my inane ramblings on the subject and for the feedback.

Pairings:

Brad/Schuldig for now. More to follow.

Rating:

I don't know exactly how the american rating system works. However, this story will contain some swearing,shonen-ai and lemony stuff.

For those who don't know the slang: I'm talking about boy-love and nearly graphic descriptions of beautiful young men making love with each other. For those who like lemony stuff…it's going to take me quite a while to get there….

This is a Schwarz-centric WK fanfiction. It's going to be a bit AU and it's going to contain jikes some Original Characters. It begins shortly after Schwarz has arrived in Japan and has started to work for Takatori. Schwarz has already fulfilled the Fujimiya mission, but has yet to tangle for the first time with Weiss.

O.K. that's about it. Grab some cookies, a beverage of your choice and enjoy!


	2. Überraschung

... thoughts

/ .../ telepathy

* * *

He could feel a headache coming on.

The chirpy, twittering thoughts of the girls in the nearby school had been gnawing at the edges of his mind for hours, and by now all he wanted was to get this job done.

Damn Crawford anyway.

Once more he raised his binoculars to survey their hunting ground.

St. Mary's Undergraduate School for Young Girls was situated in one of the better parts of Yokohama, next to a charming little park where even now the first cherry-blossoms were starting to bloom. In a few minutes, the chimes of the school church would announce afternoon-break. Hordes of air-headed, gullible girls would spill out of the bowels of the building in order to enjoy the sunshine outside and then the ether would be filled with even more mindless chatter.

He scowled.

Bloody sheep, the lot of them

He tucked his binoculars away and headed for the stairway. The under-construction office building had been perfect for surveillance purposes, but it was fucking windy up here.

/Naoe? I'm coming down. Get the car started. We'll drive to the backside of the park. Some of those girls are bound to sneak off the school-grounds because they'll want to gawk at those cherry trees. We'll nab one there and then we'll be off./

The telekinetic didn't answer, but Schuldig knew he'd obey. After all, Naoe was Crawfords' good little lackey boy. He always did what he was told. Feh.

This mission sucked. No fight, no danger, no challenge. Just grab a new toy for Farfarello, and they'd be out of here. Easy. And Mr. May-he-rot-in-hell-Crawford hadn't even bothered coming along.

The berserker had been getting restless again, to the point where he had nearly managed to suicide and Crawford had decreed that they needed to get him some kind of distraction. A catholic school-girl seemed like the perfect choice.


	3. Wechselbalg

Now that had been amusing.

The young telekinetic smiled to himself. He had just loved the surprised look on the young girls' face as Schuldig had pressed that piece of chloroforme drenched tissue over her face. Schuldig had embraced her from behind, almost like a lover, and she had struggled briefly, eyes wide with shock, before going limp in the telepaths arms.

She was awake again by now, and Nagi could hear her fearful voice from the backseat. He was driving, the car smoothly accelerating as he wished. His hands didn't even touch steering wheel or gears, and yet both turned and shifted at his merest thought. Outside, buildings and landscape sped by as the black car with the tinted windows accelerated.The young telekineticcomfortably leaned back into the BMW's leather seat, arms crossed, and enjoyed the feeling of control, of power. He also enjoyed the show provided by Schuldig and the girl.

The girl was bound hand and foot, and Schuldig had settled her on his lap. He was softly stroking her hair, her arms andher body all the while telling her of the horrors that awaited her once they arrived. Judging by the malicious grin plastered on the telepaths face, he was obviously enjoying himself. The girl was pleading for mercy with the red-head, for all the good that was going to do her.

"Why are you doing this? Please, please let me go. My family will pay you well. Please….."

Her voice was tear-choked and rough from screaming. She had screamed quite a lot in those first few minutes after waking. Schuldig had gotten bored of that rather quickly and had made her quieten down by backhanding her. Hadn't shut her up completely though. That would have spoiled their fun.

There was a faint trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth, and she flinched as the telepath leaned closer to whisper in her ear.

"Ah, little lamb….you have a rendezvous, didn't you know that? Didn't anybody tell you that you're going to meet your very own prince-charming tonight? Now, you wouldn't want to miss your date, would you? And he'll just love all those tears you're shedding."

"Please, let me go….I don't understand…."

"Nobody's going to come for you, my pet. Nobody cares. It'll be just him…and you. And you bleed real pretty. He'll love the way you bleed. He'll love the way you'll scream your little heart out."

Strangled sobs and whimpers echoed in the car.

"no, no, no…..please no….."

Yes, Nagi was definitely having fun.


	4. Veitstanz

The voices were back again.

He could hear the murmurs, always there, and for now just a tad to low to be understood. He couldn't make out the words. Not yet. He was afraid that soon now he would begin to understand what they were saying. He was so very, very afraid of that.

There was a movement at the edge of his vision. A flick of strawberry-blonde hair. A whisper. If only he could remember her name….

The smell of fresh cut grass was strong. It was spring, wasn't it? Dad always mowed their front lawn in spring. It looked like a shimmering emerald, faceted by the dull, lifeless grey of the squat buildings in the neighbourhood. Such a bright, bright green.

If only he could remember her name….

In the other corner! A pale shadow, there and gone again, and he twisted wildly, hoping and fearing to catch a glimpse of her. The chain by which he was suspended head-down clinked musically at his movements, and slowly, his struggling form began to rotate.

_Nearly there….NO! Don't leave! Don't leave!...Come back! You can't just leave me here alone…._

Sweet, musical laughter traversed the room, leaving the smell of fresh spring flowers and warm milk in its wake. A memory of happiness caressed him and all he wanted was to take a knife to his wrists and spill his blood, hot and red, onto the emerald green hills of his island.

If only he could remember her name….

Other voices came and went. Some harsh, some soft. Somewhere, someone was screaming as if their heart had been ripped out. A young boy.

The coppery tang of blood was in the air, thick and cloyingly sweet. Intermingled with the putrescent scent of evisceration.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a woman walking by, her blue dress swishing gaily around he legs, a black shawl draped over her shoulders and over the plain white blouse she was wearing. He knew that if he hugged her, buried his head at the cosy softness of her bosom, she would smell of lavender, the only luxury she allowed herself.

Her face was marred by a frown as she tugged a loose strand of hair behind her ear that had escaped from the thick, black braid that reached down to her hips.

"The shame…."

His heartbeat pounded in his ears like a war-drum and his throat constricted with grief, but still, he knew that he had to reach her, no matter what the cost. If only he could reach her, everything would be alright again. If only he could touch her once more, then none of this would have happened. If only….

She walked by, and he tried to say something to her, anything, anything at all that would make her smile at him again, anything that would make her take him into her arms, softly stroke his hair and tell him that everything was alright, but words failed him. He began trashing around, swinging violently as he fought to regain control of his voice, but all that escaped him was a harsh, hacking sound.

She was gone within an eyeblink and he screamed in fury at loosing his chance yet once more. The screams went on for a long while, only to fade into pained whispers as his voice gave out and the darkness around him grew thicker. He shivered in dread, because he knew that the next time he saw her, he would remember what had happened, and it would smash his soul to pieces and grind his mind to dust.

He knew what was coming and he knew there was no escape. The whispers had been a babbling brook in the back of his mind, but now the floodgates of despair had opened and the swirling, murky torrents of insanity swept him away and dragged him under. He was suffocating, drenched in agony and unspeakable terror and yet, he knew it wouldn't kill him, and that was the worst of all.

He didn't want to remember anymore. He didn't want to feel. He just wanted it all to end. But there was no rest for the wicked. They had told him that.

One grey moment stretched into the next. Voices faded into whispers only to return as mindless shrieks for mercy.

He couldn't stop. He tried to, but he just couldn't stop. His hand trembled as he fought for control, but his hand, his body moved as if it had a mind of its' own. Maybe if he cut of his hand it would stop. Maybe if he tore out his heart, then he wouldn't have to feel anymore. Anything, just to stop the agony of being alive.

The darkness faded and a pale greyness enveloped him. Behind him, a man stepped forth from the mists; the sound of his steps as familiar as his own.

He couldn't see him, but he knew that the man stood behind him, tall and rigid, his face harsh and commanding. The temples of his dark hair touched with grey and deep lines of worry and bitterness edged into his skin. He knew that the man would be wearing brown, simple clothes, a miners' sunday best.

"That damn hussy and her devil-spawn will rot in hell. They'll suffer the fires of satan, as is their due. That shameless whore."

Such hatred and such anger in that calm voice. All hope fled and he flinched away. How could a few words hurt worse than any beating he had ever taken?

The door to his cell clanked, breaking the hold his visions had over him. The man behind him faded as the man at the door, the red-headed telepath, kicked the door open. Slung over the red-heads shoulder there was a girl, struggling weakly and sobbing. Shapely legs, dark blue school uniform with a pleated skirt and long, brown hair twisted into two braids that had come partly undone. And a cross. A tiny, star-shaped cross that dangled on a golden chain around her throat.

The german dumped the girl unceremoniously onto the ground in front of Farfarello and then kicked her in the ribs, hard, so that she wouldn't have enough breath to try and scramble away while he untied the insane Irishman.

The buckles on the straight-jacket holding the berserker were popped open, straps were loosened, and as he was unhooked from the chain that had held him suspended up-side down, he dropped to the floor, rolling gracefully to his feet. With a smirk, the telepath tossed him a wicked-looking knife and then left the cell, whistling. The door clanged shut again, and he could hear the bolts sliding home.

The girl on the floor was coughing and choking, trying to breathe again. The berserker contemplated her in silence, the knife resting in his hand like an old friend.

Maybe this time he would be granted his miracle. His Salvation. His End to all Sorrows. Maybe this time he would remember her name and she would return to him. Maybe this time she would not die.

The girl was breathing regularly again, if a little fast. She had pushed herself up on her hands and knees, but her head was still lowered, the braids dangling to the ground.

It was time to dance his little dance again.

The berserker pounced her, throwing her on her back, pinning her wrists above her head with his free hand. He crouched over her, one knee digging into her abdomen and his knife poised over her heart. He'd have to work slowly. He'd have to give God time to hear her screams, her pleas for mercy. And maybe this time, God would find this little corner of hell and to come and rescue the two of them.

His knife slipped under her blouse, grating over her skin, drawing the first blood. With a silky sound, the soft fabric parted before the blade, much like the sea had parted before Moses. The girl shivered violently beneath his hands, her eyes pressed shut and little choked sobs pouring from her lips.

Why did God allow evil things to exist? Why didn't he stop the pain and the suffering? Wasn't God supposed to be merciful? Wasn't he supposed to be loving and kind? So why wasn't he here yet? Where was the divine intervention he needed so badly?

Didn't God care? Well, he was going to do everything in his power to MAKE the Bastard care.

He needed more room to work properly. The blade danced over the girls body, cutting her blouse, her bra, her jacket. He flicked the cloth aside with the tip of the knife in order to get a better view of the material he was to work with. It wouldn't do at all if she expired too soon because he had become impatient and sloppy.

The layers of white and blue fell to the side, revealing…

_What the fuck….?_

A definitely female anatomy, but also well trained muscles and a multitude of old scars. Most certainly not the physique of a shy, frail and innocent teenager.

Irritated, he lifted his eye to her face, where his golden-eyed gaze was met with an expression of blazing fury and ice-cold determination.

He only had time to register that her eyes were blue. A piercing, glacial blue.

Then he felt something slam into his mind with brutal force. It viciously cut through him like a hot knife through butter and scattered the fragments of his memories like leaves to the wind. The agony as he shattered once again was indescribable.

There wasn't even room left for one last thought as he was pulled under.


	5. Walpurgisnacht, part I

_Verdammte Scheiße._

Andreas would have tanned her hide for this, had he still been alive. No, seriously. He would have thoroughly trounced her in the exercise ring so that she'd be sore for days and then he'd have made her load and unload their van on her own for MONTHS.

Since Andreas was gone, she mentally whacked herself. She still couldn't believe she'd been so incredibly stupid. That she had been so fucking careless!

All right, so being surrounded by droves of air-headed, naïve little girls had been getting on her nerves. And maybe she had wanted to slap one or two of them for spouting some of the most inane rubbish she ever had the misfortune to hear. And even if the accompanying emotional background noise had been a damn, bloody nuisance…. So what! That wasn't an excuse. Hell, it wasn't even a good reason.

After all, most of the other girls were really nice and hanging out with them could be fun on occasion. Talking about boys, about clothes, going to the movies….

But in the long run, it had been like someone was trying to suffocate her with pink candy-floss.

She really, really could take only so much of that sticky sweetness. If she had to hear yet another 14-year old go "kawaii!" over a fluffy toy or some small animal, she'd puke.

It had only been two months, but this morning, she had been so irritable and frustrated that she had been ready to commit grievous bodily harm.

Shutting everything and everybody out, even if it was only for a few minutes, had held an irresistible appeal. O.K., so there wasn't anybody to act as her backup. Screw this, at the moment, there was nobody in her life with either the ability or the knowledge, let alone the trustworthiness to act as a back-up. Worse yet, the way things had been going, it had looked as if there wouldn't be someone like that again for ages.

Now matter how right Andreas had been to caution her against lowering her guard, practicing constant vigilance all by her lonesome had simply sucked. And she'd planned to go "deaf" and "blind" for only a few short minutes….really!

In the end, sneaking off to find herself a quiet little spot beneath the cherry trees and then going null, revving up her shields to maximum, had been too much of a temptation. The complete silence had been pure, unadulterated bliss. She hadn't been this relaxed for ages.

And now look where it had gotten her.

Oh yeah, Andreas wouldn't have let her live this one down for a long time.

Apropos living. She still had some hope that she might actually survive this…even though she was shut in a cell together with a homicidal madman whose insanity tasted as bitter and acrid as burning flesh. If she wanted to live to tell the tale, she'd better get to work. It would probably take everything she had, and she prayed that it would be enough.

With a small part of herself, she maintained the feeling of panic and fear that she had been broadcasting ever since this little charade had started. She added a smidgen of mind-numbing pain for good measure. No point in jeopardizing the neat little smoke-screen that she had set up the moment she had regained consciousness. If the red-headed telepath caught on, she'd be in even deeper kimchee than she already was.

_Never would have thought that the "scared lil' rabbit routine" I had to learn for our Spanish-Inquisition-Plays would come in this handy._

Getting inside the mind and the soul-place of the Madman had been unproblematic. His insanity had left him wide open and his mental shielding had holes like a swiss cheese. Ripping into him and pulling him down had been as easy as gutting and skinning a rabbit.

She found herself in the middle of an unyielding, swirling darkness tinged with red. Around her, memories and feelings whirled and revolved like shards of broken glass. Fast. Getting in had been easy. Being inside was a nightmare.

Blinding Pain, Agony, Fear, bleak Terror, nameless Dread, Hopelessness, Despair, burning Anguish, Sorrow, Regret, wild Fury and Hatred. It bit her like frost and scorched her like fire. It shook her like a dog would shake a rag and within seconds, she was shivering like an aspen leaf. She felt sick. It was like trying to breathe needles and eat nails. His emotions swamped her, too much too fast and his essence spread through her veins like boiling lead. Oh boy, this was bad….

_Shield, damn' it girl, shield! _

_My place, my ground, MINE! Get out!_

For a brief moment, which seemed like an eternity, she struggled to regain and hold her ground. Then, slowly, the push of the feelings around her receded to a comfortable distance. It had been only her experience and the fact that her opponent wasn't able to make a conscious effort to harm her which saved her.

She had tangled with insanity before. Minor cases of schizophrenia and psychosis. Eating disorders. Post-traumatic-stress-syndrome. Panic-attacks. An undiagnosed telepath or two. But never, ever anything of this magnitude. She remembered witnessing a major multiple car-crash while they had been on the road. Bleeding and screaming and dying people all over the place. It hadn't been even remotely as bad as what she was seeing and feeling now. Shit.

Maybe if she started patching some of these memories and feelings together, then she could build a sanctuary. From there, she could pull in the core personality and aid it to rebuild and reorganize itself. Of course, this would only work if the core personality could be convinced to cooperate….if it couldn't…she'd have to come up with a plan B in a hurry. She fervently hoped that she wouldn't have to rely on a Plan B.

_Insanity can be such a bitch…._

The fundamental cause for insanity was usually the same. Human minds and souls were basically autopoietic and self-referential systems. This meant that they built and organized themselves and that they did so based on principles they themselves had created.

Oh, the environment could always feed the mind and the soul with outside stimuli and information. However, how those stimuli and the information were structured and connected was up to the core being alone.

She always liked to compare this to a game of Tetris. The game, which symbolized Life and the people around you, kept dropping you cubes and shapes. The cubes and shapes were problems to be solved and other input. How you stacked those cubes was up to you. If you kept stacking the cubes in a smooth formation, they would disappear and all would be well.

Now, if you weren't skilled enough at stacking, or if there were too many cubes at once, then you couldn't keep up with the game. You lost control, and the cubes would keep piling up until they smothered you. You'd loose the game, and your sanity right with it.

The good thing was, that as long as you were alive, there was always the option of going back and stacking the cubes again. As long as you were alive, you could still win.

_Yes, getting the core personality to restructure from the ground up might just work once I have a sanctuary to start from._

_Well, lets see whom I am dealing with here…. _

_Huh. An Irishman. Well, what do you know. He certainly is crazy and I can vouch for his temper. That damn cut hurts! _

_Cursed stereotypes, proving themselves to be right at the most inopportune moments…._

He'd grown up in one of the big cities that dotted the surface of the emerald isle. His environment had been drab, poor and grey for the most part, save for a few cherished trips to the country-side. His parents had been modest, simple people and devout catholics. Working class.

His mother had been warm and loving, but weak-willed, and she had deferred to her husband (and to whatever the church decreed) in all things.

There had also been a close friend of the family. A nun. Friendly and well-meaning, but also ineffective and weak.

_They say that the way to hell is paved with good intentions….And here we have the perfect example. Gods, you should smack people that teach children such rubbish: _

"_Be a good boy, and nice things will come your way. If you are always good, God will love you and you will be happy and go to heaven. Wicked people have to suffer the fires of hell and are punished….". _

_Fuck. The poor mite. The nun had been nice to him and he liked her and he was much to young to take anything she said with a pinch of salt. He believed every word she said and tried to live by it with every ounce of his being. _

_Most other kids would have been to busy playing and coming up with mischief to really make an effort to follow the rules society imposed on them at such an early age…Now why was he different in that respect? _

The father. The father had been strict and distant. Whenever he had turned his attention on the boy, a faint trace of disapproval permeated everything.

_What an awful thing to do to an innocent kid. I wonder where that disapproval came from…_

The boy had tried to win his fathers' love. He thought that if he did everything just right, if he was a good boy….then maybe one day, his father would love him, or at least accept him.

So the boy had tried to fulfil his parents expectations, always doing what he was told, achieving good grades at school, helping in the house where he could and never getting into trouble.

By contrast, his friends were wild little ruffians, clamouring through the street, playing pranks, getting themselves all dirty and nicking apples from the backyards…and nevertheless, they were their parents' most cherished treasure.

_Oh great….._

She groaned as she unearthed another fact about the white-haired maniac, who, in the real world, was still crouching above her, knife in hand.

_He has a touch of telepathy…and empathy._

_Hell and Damnation….. _

_To be so deprived of affection and respect by one who mattered so much to him….to be so hungry for a smile, for a pat on the shoulder, for a simple "Well done, son."_

…_and then to have the thought and the feeling that there's something wrong with him, something unpleasant, virtually shoved down his throat….no wonder the kid was on the edge…._

_But what pushed him over? And what pushed him over so far as to achieve this kind of living, festering nightmare?_

The next few memories brought no answers. However, like the three kings on Christmas, they brought precious gifts. Loving memories of good times and happiness. A feeling of joy. A sense of being safe and at peace. Everything she would need in order to create a Sanctuary.

It started with a small, bright chip that made her catch her breath. An opening. A childhood memory. The young, pale-haired boy playing and laughing with an even younger but equally pale-haired girl on a meadow.

_So much happiness and contentment…. _

She smiled. Most of the fragments involving the small girl were useable. There was a lot of love there. Fierce and protective. And his memories….

Their parents went to work very early and arrived back home late in the evening, so she had become his responsibility. A responsibility he had taken very seriously.

He had been the one to comfort her when she had skinned her knee for the first time. In the mornings, he made her breakfast. In the evenings, it was him who read her bedtime-stories. He watched over her as she drifted into sleep and her hair had been as soft as downy feathers….he used to stroke it while she fell asleep.

Her smile had been as sweet and warm as fresh milk. It had made him feel so warm inside.

Her first word had been "Deartháir"…."brother"…..and he had wanted to be there for her, always.

Her name had been Breanna.

Time to bring the Berserker into the Sanctuary she had built.


	6. Walpurgisnacht, part II

It was like waking from a profound sleep. At first came a subtle awareness of his surroundings. Warm grass beneath his fingers, sunshine on his face, the faint rustling of leaves above him. A faint smell of apple blossoms and of a meadow in early summer.

It felt nice. As serene and restful as a cat napping in the sun. There were no voices anymore, no more whispers and he briefly wondered where they had gone. Strangely though, at the moment, he didn't worry about them returning to haunt him. He felt much too good for that.

There were things he remembered, dreadful things that seemed to belong right into the nethermost and bloodiest rings of hell. The look on the face of his sister as he stabbed her again and again….her blood on his hands….his torture and training at Rosenkreuz….the look in the eyes of a nameless woman while he had killed her slowly, screaming at God in fury and frustration…..

……but somehow, all these things seemed far, far away….they didn't touch him anymore….they didn't hurt him anymore…..It was as if it all had been no more than a distant dream….and that was just SO wrong….

Someone was trying to play games with him.

A slow grin spread on his face, like blood in water. Nobody played stupid little games with him without paying for them. Even Schuldig had learned that. The hard way. But it wasn't Schuldig this time, was it? It was that….girl.

He briefly wondered whether she was one of God's messengers or just another talent that had somehow ended up in his cell, but then decided that it didn't matter either way. In the end, she'd be just so much dead meat.

It was strange though. She had pulled him under and for the moment she had the upper hand. He was caught in a vision she had created and there wasn't anything he could do about it for now. So why was everything so pleasant? Why was she going great lengths to make him feel comfortable and at peace? All the others had flooded his mind and his dreams with horrific images and thoughts of desperation. They had tried to beat him into submission with words of treachery and spite. But no words from her so far.

It had to be some kind of trap.

_Well, my little aingeal, we'll see who gets caught in this in the end, won't we? We will play this game of yours. And one slip…one flaw …one weakness in this scheme of yours….and I WILL make you hurt. I will tear you apart until you scream and scream and scream. I will make the heavens resound with your cries for mercy. I swear._

No answer.

Time to get a move on then. He slowly opened his eye and did a quick check of himself and of his surroundings. He found himself lying on a little hillock underneath the only tree far and wide. An apple tree. It was, as his nose had already told him, blooming and the soft droning of bees made a pleasant and soothing background noise overhead. Around him verdant meadows seemed to stretch on forever and ever, rising and falling with the rolling hills and downs. In the distance a flock of sheep was grazing and far, far away a dog could be heard barking.

His outfit was one of those he usually wore. Comfortable boots, trousers, a long button-down vest and beneath that a few bandages but no shirt. The only change was the colour. Everything he was wearing was a dark, shining blood-red. Nice.

Now all he needed was his weapon. His aingeal was in for a surprise. He had a few tricks up his sleeve that the chit probably hadn't calculated on. None of the other telepaths had. He grinned as he concentrated a little. His sai was so much part of him that summoning it into this dream wasn't hard at all. And wounds he inflicted on this plane translated themselves directly into the real world. Within an instant, the blade was gleaming in his hand.

The others who had tried to mess with his head hadn't thought that he'd be able to pull this kind of stunt and they had been very astonished when he had gutted them. All he had to do now was ferret out his aingeal. She was bound to be surprised too.

* * *

She stood right at the edge, her gaze sweeping over the chaos ahead of her. Outside of the sanctuary, things were worse than ever. She could feel the roiling emotions and memories blazing out there like a furnace, threatening to scorch everything to cinders that ventured into their path.

_I have built a sanctuary for you, so that you can find yourself again….and now I will have to fight to protect it. To protect you on your journey. Did I mention that I hate standing guard? Waiting….while the important stuff happens somewhere else, somewhere I can't intervene. _

Once more, she checked her shielding and her weaponry. She was stalling, she knew. She didn't want to go out there. No matter how hard she fought, no matter how great her determination….in the end, she would loose.

_Facing your madness has torn up old wounds inside of me, did you know that? Wounds that took ages to heal. I felt like dying when I lost Andreas. Only the promises I made kept me going, forced me to face my hurt and heal it. But now I'm bleeding inside again. It feels like somebody is trying to rip my fucking heart out. You're making me bleed so badly, and you don't even know it. _

She winced as his threats of retribution drifted up to her.

_Why thank you so very much…right now, I'm not particularly happy with you either. But let me tell you something: I don't scream and I don't beg. For nobody. _

Outside pandemonium beckoned her, promising untold agony and never-ending sorrow. It sent shivers up her spine and her skin broke out in cold sweat. She gritted her teeth and balled her hands into fists.

_I can't stay much longer._

For one last time, she focused her attention on the blood-red figure in the distance.

_I should hate you, you know. I should curse you to the nine hells. But I can't. I've seen too many of your memories, felt too much of what you're feeling, tasted your soul. And now I…just…fucking…can't…hate you in peace and quiet anymore. So I'll settle for guarding your back while you fight your demons. I've set the stage and prepared the path. The rest is up to you. _

Bracing herself, she stepped off the edge and plunged into the abyss below.

* * *

There was a stony little path passing near the apple tree. It was as good a place to start as any and after a short debate with himself, he set off to the right, into the direction where he had heard the dog barking.

The path meandered through the hills and meadows like a river. There didn't seem to be much change in the landscape. Emerald green grass dotted with flowers, butterflies and bumble-bees, the odd tree and once or twice a field-mouse scurrying over the path. Quiet. Restful.

The sun was shining overhead, warming his face.

_Where the hell is she hiding?_

He tried leaving the path, but that didn't get him any response or change worth the bother. After wading for what felt like an hour through knee-deep grass which rustled softly as he passed, he returned to the path, frustrated.

He was annoyed. He didn't like walking. Not having an opponent to fight was even more annoying. Slashing at the grass had only gotten him…well…cut grass. He had poked a bit at one of the trees too….. and had spent ten minutes afterwards cleaning his sai of the sticky sap.

There were burrs and seeds clinging to his pants and his feet were starting to feel a bit sore. It was a….familiar….feeling. But there was something still missing….but what?

To his great irritation, on top of it all, his stomach started to growl. He was hungry.

Weary and pissed off, he sat down in the middle of the path. He took off his boots and inspected his feet. There were a few red spots but no blisters so far.

_Oh fuck it! You're supposed to get something to fight when someone drags you into a vision. Blood. Screams. Darkness. NOT….grass, sunshine and sore feet._

His stomach growled again, louder this time.

…_.and damn hungry._

Somebody cleared his throat right behind him.

In a flash, he was crouching on the path, his weapon ready, facing whatever had managed to sneak up behind him.

It was………….an elephant?

Wait, not exactly an elephant. It had an elephants head, but a mans' body. A rather pot-bellied body. It was wearing wide, multi-coloured silk pants and quite a number of long golden necklaces. It was sitting cross-legged on a small, intricately carved throne which in turn was perched on a…….rat?

The rat gave him what looked like a baleful glare and squeaked at him. Loud.

The elephant chuckled softly.

"Rat says: You're standing in Your Way."

"What?"

"You're standing in your way. Here…."

The elephant-headed man tossed him one of the rice balls he had been holding. He caught it instinctively.

"…sustenance for your journey. You have my blessing. Hut, hut, on Rat, we need to be going."

The rat squeaked indignantly at him once more and then it scurried past, throne, elephant and all. He was too shocked to move but recuperated fast. He jerked around, trying to stab the Rat with his sai…but rat and rider were already far away. Soon they were no more than a dusty cloud speeding along the path in the distance.

"What the…..?"

"………………………...Huh…"

After the surprise wore off, he inspected the rice ball the elephant-man had thrown him. It looked good. Edible. It smelled even better. His mouth started to water.

Throwing caution to the wind, he started eating. Delicious. If she wanted to kill him, at least he wouldn't die hungry. Besides, if she killed him or if he killed himself….where was the difference?

And if this dreamscape was her idea of torture, maybe he should ask Schuldig to give her lessons, because she obviously had gotten it all wrong.

Feeling sated and refreshed, he put his boots back on and continued down the path, following the route the elephant had taken.

* * *

Shortly after, the sun was directly overhead and his feet were more than sore. They hurt. He could feel the blisters forming at the heel and on the sides.

Fancy being able to feel actual, physical pain within this dream. Sure, the other telepaths had hurt him too, or had at least tried to, but the pain they had inflicted had had a different quality. More mental than physical. And whatever they had tried, it never came close to what he was feeling anyway.

Since Jei had ceased to exist, physical hurt had become no more than a faint memory. He had alternately appreciated and loathed its absence.

Not feeling pain had added to the ecstasy when he was let off the leash, slaughtering his targets, coming at them even after they had shot him, stabbed him and generally tried to stop him by any means possible. But he always kept coming. Seeing the panic their eyes as he attacked, bleeding and screaming and grinning like a demon had been pure heaven. Nobody could stand in his way. Not even God. He was unstoppable.

But there had also been times where he had WANTED to feel pain. Had desperately craved it. Had wanted the sweet hurt of shredded skin and broken bones to distract him from the memories that tortured him.

_Feeling pain with my body would have numbed the pain within my soul, would have given me something to focus on when my emotions were tearing me apart…but until now, my body felt no pain, no matter how often I tried. And I did try._

But there had been another reason why he had cut himself, strangled himself until his lungs screamed for air, had smashed his head against the wall. At times he had longed for the debilitating agony that could be inflicted with fists, screws, whips, knives, brands…with a desperation that reached to his very core. Not to distract him from his other pain, but because he longed for MORE pain.

_Huh…I remember one of the recruits at Rosenkreuz, howling and sobbing as they scoured away his skin with acid and a metal brush. …and I felt jealous, because he was hurting…and I wasn't._

He had wanted to suffer, suffer badly….because something deep inside of him claimed with vehemence that he deserved it. He deserved the worst. Because he had done something unforgivable.

_But I don't remember doing anything wrong. At least not before Rosenkreuz. I was good! I followed Gods' commandments! I sought to be virtuous, just as he charged us to be! And he betrayed us! He cast us aside!_

_He promised to love us, to protect us, to shelter us in his hand…_

…_so why did he do this? Why did he take everything away from me? Are we no more than playthings to him?_

… _my family...my sister….dead …brutally murdered……by greedy, burglaring assholes sent by a treacherous god. I hate him. I want to kill him._

_If only he would take everything back….If only I could MAKE him take everything back…i want her back…._

_He didn't protect them even though he promised he would….he….I…._

_It's all so foggy…shifting….I don't remember….her face as….her blood….I don't remember her name…..If only I knew what happened that day….I…._

_Pain. Punishment. I wanted both so badly._

But pain had eluded him, had been denied to him, for far too long.

Now that he had it back, it wasn't quite as satisfying as he had imagined it would be.

Blistered feet lacked a certain panache. They hurt, but they didn't hurt enough. They weren't punishment or relief. They were just a fucking nuisance. He felt cheated.

_And I won't slice myself up until I have sliced her up first._


	7. Walpurgisnacht, part III

He continued down the path. After a while, he came upon a small wood. Oak, maple, beech and lime were scattered loosely alongside the way. The treetops made a brilliant green roof overhead, which dappled the ground in sunlight. Somewhere, a cuckoo called and leaves rustled as some squirrels scampered through the branches overhead.

The path led him to a small brook that babbled merrily through the miniature forest. It was neither very deep nor very broad and the path continued on the other side. The water would soothe his sore feet nicely indeed.

Oddly, he remembered his mum telling him that evil could not cross free-flowing water and he briefly wondered if he would be able to continue following this path.

Shrugging, he first quenched his thirst and then, with a pained groan, he pulled off his boots and sat down on a boulder beside the shallow stream. He plunged his feet into the water and found it thankfully cool. His feet felt better almost instantly.

Comfortable, safe….pleasant surroundings….

He had to do something about this vision if he could. The sense of peace and relaxation spreading inside of him was creeping him out.

_Strange. _

_I still remember having to fight real hard just so that I could string two thoughts together, because sometimes everything inside was so jumbled._

_I remember how difficult it was to concentrate some days, because just being aware that I was alive hurt so bad I could hardly breathe. _

_It is all still there…but fainter. Like being pulled from a raging storm into a safe haven. The storm is still there…I can feel it. But somehow….outside?_

The girl. She had been brought to him as a plaything, as a means of relieving stress. Another hostage in his war with God, and, failing God's surrender, something to tear apart so that the kill-high would drown out his nightmares. But then she had neatly turned the tables on him and Schwarz's intentions, and the way she went about it left him wondering.

_Until now she hasn't even made an attempt to attack. Even when I offered her an opportunity to do so. _

_So what is she trying to do? Bribe me somehow? _

_Find some way she can control me? That's something not even Rosenkreuz quite managed. _

_Scramble my mind? Been there, done that….hm…didn't get a T-shirt though….Maybe I should ask Crawford to buy me one. If he goes on like that, he certainly will have to get one for himself. _

_Sheesh. These days, when I look at him, I can hear glass breaking. _

Crawford had ordered the girl for him, so now she was his responsibility. Sooner or later, he would have to decide on a course of action concerning her.

_She's not just a plaything anymore. She's a threat. Granted, she only managed to get so far because Schwarz didn't expect her to be some kind of talent, but still, the prudent thing would be to kill her as soon as I get the chance. _

_Yeah, right. Farfarello, the prudent Berserker. _

He could almost hear Schuldig laughing his ass off at the thought.

So maybe he wasn't prudent. Being prudent was no fun. And it implied that you still had something left to loose.

_Ah…but patience is a different thing entirely. When you're out hunting, you have to bide your time….so you can strike when the right moment has come._

Patience had served as his weapon before.

Since he didn't react to his environment much (it usually wasn't worth the bother) people had a tendency to think of him as a plaything, an empty doll….or a mindless tool. To be used and played with, only to be shut away again once the fun was over.

And he liked it that way.

It made his prey careless. They didn't notice how he observed, memorized, calculated. Just like deer didn't notice a Jaguar, crouching in the branches above them.

_Thank you Ryan for showing me the virtue of keeping quiet and biding my time. Thank you for showing me the virtue of good planning._

The cold anger and hatred rising in him while he thought of Ryan felt good. They chased away the calm serenity spreading through him, so he concentrated on the memory. He wouldn't let her manipulate him.

Ryan. A care-taker at the very first mental institution he had been sent to. A man with a penchant for small boys.

_And I was easy prey, no? Pretty, small….out of my mind …just your type._

_After they admitted me to the institution, I cried almost the whole time. _

_(Because I wanted my father back, my mother, my sister.)_

_(Because the One I had loved and trusted had betrayed me, abandoned me, condemned me.) _

_And that turned you on even more, didn't it?_

Ryan hadn't expected the heavily drugged boy to resist much, let alone tell tales. And even if the boy had been able to string enough words together to tell anybody of his plight….who would have believed the loony-case anyway?

The man had relished this feeling of power, gloated at his mediocre ingenuity.

He had particularly liked the first few times, where the boy had cringed away from his hand and had called out to his now-dead parents for help. He had lapped up the boys' tears with his tongue while he fucked the child until it bled. So tight. So hot.

_It didn't hurt. The fucking. Nothing did, compared to loosing my family. _

_(Still… a feeling of sickness, amassing right at the bottom of his stomach until it overflows. He throws up every time after Ryan visits him.)_

A shameless whore. Not fit to live. Worthless but for one thing.

_He told me so. And Ryan told me so._

_And nobody came to my rescue. Nobody saw or cared what was happening to me. Not even God. God never cares._

_(The last spark of hope, of faith, slowly dying by inches. Leaving decay and festering rot in its wake. All other feelings die in the face of the need to kill. It feels so good.)_

_He was stronger than me, older, more experienced. He held the keys to my cell. So I watched him. I waited. I bided my time….and my time came._

Everybody had thought that it had been an accident. A freakish one, but an accident nonetheless.

_I tongued the tablets they gave me for days, just as I had watched some of the other patients do. I collected them. And then I fed them to another patient. While the doctors and nurses were busy with him as he lay on the ground, convulsing and screaming, I filched a syringe and some drugs from the doctors' bag. I had it all planned. I knew the routines. And the next time Ryan came around, I waited until he lay beside me, sated and half-dazed, and I rammed the syringe into his throat. I pumped him full of juice and he went under like a stone. I got up and grabbed his keys._

The boy couldn't have pulled the unconscious, heavy man into the corridor on his own. But wheeling the bed into the corridor with the prey lying on it worked just fine.

When the boy came to the big marble sculpture opposite the elevator, all he had to do was push the man off the bed and position him.

…_right at the feet of Our Lord, smiling beatifically. _

_Then I went to the storage room, and, using the keys again, nicked some rope and a broom._

One end of the rope went around the statues' throat. The boy had to climb a bit for that. After all, the statue was about 8 feet high.

_The hands of the Lord, stretched out in blessing, were no more than an accessory to murder then, just as they are now. And they made good handholds. _

The other end of the rope was tied to the broom.

The boy gagged Ryan, so he wouldn't scream the house down when the plan reached fruition. Then he stepped into the elevator, broom in hand and pressed "down". The broom was positioned horizontally to the closing doors, so that they would anchor the rope during the descent.

The "thump" of the sculpture toppling was sweet like a demented angel singing.

_Ryan's' body and the carpeting nicely muffled the noise. Apart from the other patients, we were alone in our ward. Ryan had seen to that. Didn't want to be disturbed while playing. Worked nicely in my favour, too. And nobody minds the occasional thump in a madhouse anyway. _

When the boy returned to his floor, he put back the rope, the broom and the bed. The keys he kept and hid. And then he came back to his tormentor's side.

_Ryan was awake again. The statues' head had crushed his lower abdomen, and it looked like Jesus was giving him a blow-job._

_I made sure he saw my face as I dipped my fingers into his wounds, digging into his exposed innards, and then, when I licked his blood from my fingers, he screamed through his gag. He didn't stop screaming until he died. I made sure of that. _

The more Ryan's breathing slowed, hitched, stumbled, the more a feeling of irrevocable damnation overwhelmed the boy.

(_No more denial, no more struggling, no more hope_. _Satisfaction tastes like the thick, sweet cream his mother used to serve with her scones_. _Delicious._)

_Heh. I kept that gag for weeks. Like a cuddle blanket. The nurses thought it cute that I took that piece of cloth everywhere I went. My own little piece of hell._

The memories had brought back icy hatred and cold determination to warm him. Good.

Ryan had been his. And now the girl was his too.

_So what do I do with her? In the real world, my knife is still at her throat. As long as this isn't over, neither of us will be able to move. If I can find her within this vision, I can kill her here. If I can get out of this dream before her, I can kill her in the real world. If she kills me here, I will be dead, but she'll still have to deal with the rest of Schwarz…and the way Mastermind dumped her on me, she has to know that they would kill her messily and slowly. _

_Well, let's see…._

He concentrated. His breathing slowed. He pushed down and outward with his awareness, searching.

As he knew from experience, telepaths always had to put bits and pieces of themselves into their vision in order to control it. The vision alone was not enough to grab them by, let alone reach them…unless you somehow managed to gain access to the core. Connect to the mainframe and crack the code, as Naoe would put it.

_How careless of her. Granted, eating that rice-ball was a bit risky…but also the first connection I made. Drinking the water was the second._

_I should be able to get some kind of leverage now…or at least a bit of information._

He concentrated on the girl as he remembered her from his cell: how she had acted the scared little rabbit while Mastermind was there and how frosty her eyes had been when she had dropped the masquerade. The scars on her body.

The air seemed to tighten around him, becoming almost liquid. The brook's babbling became louder…quieter…louder…clearer. Voices.

A small girls' voice. Inquisitive. Sombre. "….And why do I always have to tell everybody that you're my dad?"

An older man. Patient, with a hint of humour. "It's a game Jules. Like hide and seek. So they won't find you."

"But you said they don't even know I exist! So why do I have to hide?"

"Because you're the hidden Joker. The one card that can maybe beat them, if it's played carefully."

"And only a hidden Joker can win the game?"

"That's right."

"It's a stupid game. I don't want to play anymore." A hint of defiance.

Sadness. "And jeopardize everything your parents did for you?"

"……no…..but…."

"Then go pack your things. We're moving in half an hour."

With an almost audible twang, the air released its hold, and the brook became unintelligible once more.

_Interesting. A pity that this is all I could pull from her. But the longer I walk this dream, the more access will I gain. So for now, I'll have to go on and wait for her to make the next move. Not the best strategy I've ever come up with, but then, patience does have a tendency to pay off._

_Wait for me, my aingeal. I will find you yet._

He put his boots back on and headed across the brook to the other side where the path continued.

After a while it occurred to him that crossing the free-flowing water hadn't been a problem at all.


	8. Interlude: Jagd

The ice-cubes softly clinked as Crawford set down his glass. He usually abhorred whisky, preferring the richer, more refined flavours a good cognac offered. However, in the last few weeks he found that he needed something to blur the edge of things. So far Jack Daniels had been up to the job.

For a brief instant, he envied the Berserker the relief the madman found with his victims, however fleeting that was. He remembered the near ecstatic look he had witnessed on the Berserker's tear-streaked face as he cradled the bloody remains of his last victim, slowly rocking back and forth. The small, broken voice that held such wonderment as the madman whispered "He didn't come…." over and over again. It had taken nearly a day to convince the lunatic to let go of the corpse so they could dispose of it.

The newest toy had been with the Berserker for over 24 hours now. Tomorrow morning would be a good time to take a look if there was anything still left of it or if they could start with the clean-up.

Across from the sitting area where Crawford was working, on the other side of the kitchen-counter, the resident telepath was doing the dishes, his long fiery hair pulled back in a pony-tail so it wouldn't get in the way.

Crawford knew the telepath hated kitchen duty, but right now, there was no help for it. Apart form the madman, they were all taking turns at household-chores. Crawford silently cursed his employer and for a moment, he briefly envisioned shooting the man the next time he saw him. Just went to show how his control was slipping. Normally, he wouldn't indulge in that kind of fantasy. Indulging fantasies of any kind was a weakness.

Still it chafed. They were the best in the field money could buy, they were the fucking elite…and they still had to do their own cooking, cleaning and washing.

Of course, Takatori had initially provided them with household help. But somebody who cooked and cleaned for Schwarz had to be trustworthy. Trustworthy enough to be granted access to all rooms. Trustworthy enough so they wouldn't spill any secrets or try to poison the team. Unfortunately, Takatori thought it funny to shove all the trouble-makers in his staff at Schwarz, knowing full well that sooner or later they'd fuck up in one way or another. And then Schwarz would kill them, sometimes rather messily.

Schuldig had caught the last one, a mousy, scared young man trying to run away. The boy had been scared shitless by what he had seen and heard while working for Takatori and Schwarz and he had hoped to escape, thinking the police would grant him protection if he brought them proof of Takatoris' crimes. The telepath had shot the boy on the spot.

Since then, Crawford had refused all of Takatori's offers of another household-helper, judging them to be more trouble than they were worth. So until Schwarz could find somebody suitable, they were stuck with doing all the household chores on their own.

Crawford returned his attention to the reports sitting in his lap and sighed. He deeply regretted that there hadn't been much field-work for him lately. He badly craved the distraction of a challenge.

Musing on the possibility of finding something other than alcohol to take his mind of things, Crawford flipped through the pages. Not much of a chance of getting into a decent fight in the near-future and he didn't even need his precognition to see that. Schwarz had made a lasting impression on the local hot-heads and wanna-bees. Nobody had seriously tried to contest their current employers position for the last few months. Not since the Fujimiya job. And the police weren't much of a challenge either.

Usually, all this wouldn't bother him in the least. But right now, the relative quiet left him too much time to think. To question. And that just wouldn't do. He had made his choices long ago, and now he would stick with them, no matter the cost to himself. There were promises he had to keep.

He grabbed his glass and carefully nipped at it. Only nipping wasn't easy when what he really wanted to do was grab the whole bottle and down it in one go. On the other hand, excellent self-control had always been one of his better features.

Everything came with a price tag, and now it was his turn to pay his pound of flesh and pint of blood. And he would pay, even if it bled him dry.

He glanced up at his telepath and watched him drying the last few dishes. The usually lightning-fast red-head was working almost in slow-motion, as if he tried to draw out the moment into infinity. His posture was rigid, expectant.

Deciding to call it a day, Crawford closed the file he had been reading with an audible snap. It made the telepath flinch and close his eyes. His movements stilled completely. Crawford rose from the couch. He walked over to the telepath, his steps slow and deliberate, as if he were stalking an elusive prey.

He came up behind the telepath who was still clutching the dish and the towel and slipped his arms around the younger man's waist. His fingers rubbed across Schuldigs' taut belly, slowly circling the navel and then dipping beneath the shirt so he could feel the telepaths' skin burn beneath his fingertips. He could hear Schuldigs' breath catch as he reached up with one hand to pinch one of the nipples. Schuldig clenched his jaws, trying to keep himself from crying out. Crawford pulled the younger man against him, harshly, and let his other hand wander downwards. He let his hand rest atop the slight bulge in the younger mans' pants, not moving. Schuldigs' breathing picked up pace and Crawford knew that if he let the younger man continue the telepath would start hyperventilating.

"Slow your breathing". No more than a whisper, but yet an order the younger man couldn't disobey.

When the younger man had calmed down a little, Crawford slowly started kneading the flesh beneath his hands. The nipple constricted to a puckered nub, just as the soft heat in his other hand threatened to burn him.

The telepath in his arms started shivering, silent and careful to keep his breathing slow and steady, and Brad felt as if his heart would break.


	9. Böses Erwachen

Authors note:

Hi everybody!

In case you haven't noticed by now, this is going to be a rather long story. Right now, I'm focusing mainly on Farfarello and Jules, fleshing out their background and history. Necessary, I'm afraid, because those two are going to be the key to Pandora's Box for Schwarz. Still, I hope to be done with that in a chapter or two, so I can focus more on Brad and Schuldig. I have some wicked things planned for them…

The story as such hasn't progressed much yet, but still, I'd love to have your opinion so far: Any scene/idea you especially liked? Anything you find intriguing? Your impression of the characters? Theories you'd like to share? Everything is welcome!

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As Farfarello had anticipated, he didn't have to wait long for the next encounter.

It turned out to be a pretty frustrating one.

The beginning was harmless enough. Somewhere in the woods, not to far away, someone was playing pan-pipes. The melody danced through the woods and the under-brush, lively and sharp.

_Hell, I know this one. Shaun's mom used to sing that when she made us blackberry crumble for tea. She used to tell us that it was her favourite song because it spoke of love and defiance and of promises kept...she said it pulled right at her heart-strings…_

_I haven't …remembered that…in a very, very long time._

The melody seemed to swirl around him, envelop him and he briefly closed his eyes as he hummed along with it. He couldn't help himself. Even though it made other memories claw painfully at his guts, threatening to break through, he had to whisper along with the tune. He owed them that much.

"…step it out Mary, my fine daughter…step it out Mary, if you can…." he intoned in a low, rough voice. Kind of hard to believe that he had once sung in a choir.

Of course the vision didn't stick only with the pan-pipes. As he continued down the path, singing softly, he sensed a movement behind his back. Battle instincts took over and he swirled around.

Nothing.

_Damn. Moves just as fast as I do. _

A few heartbeats later, another movement, somewhere to his right. His sai flashed in his hand as he turned wildly, but there was nobody there.

_What the…?_

Then the music stopped and there was a rustle in a bush to his left. He lunged, but his pursuer was gone again.

Soft clip-clopping sounds echoed on the path right behind him and somebody snickered. He spun around.

Again, nothing.

_Fuck this!_

Patiently stalking a victim was one thing. Being stalked himself made his hair stand on end and sent his instincts screaming for the interloper's blood. His experience impatiently added that anybody dancing rings around him was bad news and would he please put an end to this silly game already? Unfortunately, like everything in this vision, aforementioned interloper wasn't cooperating.

If he didn't get lucky, this could go on for hours.

He was pretty winded by the time he finally caught a glimpse of brown from the corner of his eye. Happily he pounced, sure of his victory, only to feel something solidly punching him in the back. He found himself flat on the ground, his nose digging into the dirt.

_Ouch. Kicked me like a mule._

And there were animal tracks right in front of him. Tracks that hadn't been there mere seconds before.

…_or a goat rather. Damnation._

He swiftly jumped back to his feet again and crouched, ready for another attack.

To his disgust the forest around him now remained quiet, save for a soft breeze whispering through the leaves overhead. No more rustling in the under-brush. No attack. It seemed like the game of hide and seek was over.

He testily noted that he had lost his weapon during the assault and that it was nowhere to be seen. With a snarl and a shrug, he called out to it with his mind, confident that it would answer his summons.

It didn't.

Instead there was a soft plop and he found himself holding….a tin-whistle. A shiny, brand-new, fuck-the-stupid-pan-pipes tin-whistle.

_Bloody heck. This is not my day._

Growling with barely contained anger he stared at it. Having his weapon replaced with a musical instrument was definitely an all-time low. He'd be buggered if he couldn't turn this to his advantage.

Cursing, he focused on the instruments' shiny surface and thought of the girl, hard. He was rewarded by images appearing in the metallic surface of his newest acquirement. Flames. Some kind of fight. Screams and gunfire. The girl, a blade in each had, one short, one long, both of them glinting in the fire-light as she stabbed, slashed and parried while darting past her opponents. The images sent battle-rage thrumming through his veins and he knew from her expression that she was held in thrall by the same ecstasy.

_Yeah. I figured you for a fighter. _

The vision ended and after a brief moment of contemplation, he slipped the tin-whistle into his belt and started walking again. The wood grew lighter and he could see that the path was coming to the edge of the forest.

Just as he stepped out of the trees, two ravens swooped down form the verdant canopy above, cawing. They flew right past him and in their wake, unbidden and unstoppable, came a veritable flood of long-forgotten thoughts and memories.

_Oh, fucking bloody hell. _

He was instantly caught up in bits and pieces of his past, each and every one of them clamouring for attention to the exclusion of all else.

They stopped him dead in his tracks.

He tried to fight it, to think of something else, to find focus in his rage and frustration but he couldn't help it. Not this time. These were intense memories which he had denied himself for too long, memories which he had buried in the screaming, bloodied presence of Rosenkreuz and his victims, and now they were back with a vengeance.

First came the taste of cherries in his mouth, sweet and sour and rich.

_In summer we used to go on picnics to the country-side. Mostly on Sundays after church. And for the occasion Mum baked the best muffins I've ever tasted. Sis' loved the chocolate ones…but I liked Mum's cherry muffins best._

A warm weight seemed to settle in his arms as he remembered the day he had held his sister for the first time. He had been only three or so and yet his mother had allowed him to hold the newborn infant. His sister had been so tiny then, and she had smelled like milk and apple blossoms. Her cheeks were a rosy pink and she didn't have any teeth, but still she had the sweetest smile….it warmed him inside, all the way down to his toes, and he caught himself smiling right back. He would do anything for her, anything at all. He'd love and protect her forever.

_I swear._

But somehow his arms were empty, aching for her embrace as the doors of the asylum loudly slammed shut behind him. The echo of that ominous noise seemed to go on in his head forever and it made him grow cold all over. His hands grew sweaty and he shivered.

_I have to remember her name. I have to._

Frantically, he sought some kind of temporary anchor, some kind of comfort, and he blindly groped for the thin-whistle. The smooth surface of the instrument was familiar to his touch as he lifted it to his lips and played a few notes. A bit of warmth returned, answering his call.

_This is not the first tin-whistle I've had. _

After a few moments, it was as easy as breathing. He slipped into a melody he'd heard on the radio a few days back. "All Soul's Night" or something. He had liked it because it sounded irish and the melody was nice and soothing. On some days he liked nice things.

_It was Sister Ruth who gave me a tin-whistle for my 7th birthday. Best present anyone ever gave me. And she enjoyed teaching me how to play so much that it felt like sunshine and cherries to me._

_Once I got the hang of it, I also used to play for Shaun…and his mom…._

_They moved to the neighbourhood when I was 8 or so…_

He lowered the instrument and clenched his hands into fists. Somehow, with the melody gone, the cold managed to creep back in, and his throat grew tight.

_Screw it. Isn't there one fucking memory in my mind that isn't tainted with loss and regret?_

_Before…before it all happened we spent lots of time together, Shaun and me and my sis'. _

He balked at the oncoming memories, but somewhere, he could hear a raven calling, and the past just kept coming at him. The tin-whistle fell to the ground with a clatter.

Shaun and him had gone to the same school, had been in the same class and had played together in the narrow back-alleys of their neighbourhood. When time and his parents permitted, which was rare, they had gone to fairs and markets with his sis' in tow. Once, Shaun's mom had even taken them pony-riding. His first and only time on horse-back ever.

_I can still hear Sis' laughing and hollering as her pony fell into a trot. I remember how Shaun and I looked and grinned at each other at her antics. _

_And then Da' found out that Shaun was illegitimate…the son of a run-away priest who at some point returned to the forgiving arms of the Roman-Catholic Church, leaving his knocked-up girlfriend behind. Of course everybody said it was her fault, for leading the oh-so-poor priest astray._

_(His voice had been so cold.)_

("That damn hussy and her devil-spawn will rot in hell. They'll suffer the fires of Satan, as is their due….And if you and your sister don't take care, so will you!")

_Everything went rapidly downhill from then on. _

He could feel the subtle malice suddenly clinging to people, reeking like sour piss and rotten meat. Snide remarks and cold silences, hidden shoves and petty acts of bigotry…all of it directed at Shaun and his mom. The wrongness of it all burned away at him like acid.

Shaun was stubborn and tough for a 10 year old and he put on a brave face when things got bad, but Jei could hear him screaming and sobbing and pleading underneath, and that ate at him in the worst ways imaginable.

Determined to make things right again, he stood up for his friend where he could, even doing the unthinkable and getting himself into fights, but it just wasn't enough. For every idiot whose nose he bloodied there were two more to take his place. And against the grown-ups he could do nothing at all.

His best efforts were completely stymied once his father had heard about the fights. He forbade Jei any contact with Shaun and his mom, and he rigidly enforced that command. For the first time in his life, Jei found that he hated and feared his father.

Cornered, distressed and confused, he had turned to his one sure source of help and comfort. Hadn't Sister Ruth always taught him that God would protect the good and the righteous?

He distinctly remembered the day he had knelt on the cold stone floor in front of the altar, desperately praying for help to the Lord Almighty. And God had answered his prayers.

The sky had been grey and overcast. A cold, drizzling rain blew straight in his face, chafing his skin and the wind was ripping the old brown-and-yellow leaves right from the trees.

They pulled Shaun out of the river that day.

Naked, battered, bruised….and dead.

God had forsaken him.

_His eyes were so flat…like those of the sinners suffering in hell…like in the fresco at church….and my mum just pulled me away…."Don't look!"…..don't look…._

_But I wanted to look…needed to look…._

As if answering him, the kaleidoscope of his memories flicked and he saw.

The briefing room, a few months ago. Folders scattered on the table. Pictures of a red-haired young man, beautiful, shy smile….a girl, black hair twisted into braids, so sweet….like his sister….Schuldig flippantly admitting that he had botched the killing…Crawford's brief, chilly acknowledgement …..

_We are going to kill that boy and the girl…sooner or later…._

He remembered his own family, dead, lying in their blood, murdered.

It had been burglars, hadn't it?

But there was blood on his hands….

_Couldn't keep you safe….broke my promise…._

_A brother and his sister….my sister…his sister…..what does that make me?_

_What does that make ME?_

Why was it all so clear now?

His father's incomprehension in the face of death. The sightless gaze of his mother as blood pooled around her body. The confusion and pain in his sisters' face as he slipped his knife into her heart.

_Come back to me….I didn't mean to…..please…just…._

He could hear a small, keening sound escaping his lips and his knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground, burying his face in his hands.

_I'd do anything, if just…_

There was salt on his lips. Was he crying? Or was he bleeding?

It hurt, hurt so bad, and yet he was still here, still remembering, still knowing. He burned with it, but it didn't tear him apart, it didn't end like it always had, and he could feel tears seeping out from under his eye-patch because when he was 12 he hadn't cut out enough to stop the tears and now they were mingling with the tears that poured from his good eye and it HURT, but he was still here, he couldn't make it stop….

Everything went blank as the cawing of two ravens faded into the distance.

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P.S.: I'd like to say "muchas gracias" to my reviewers on ffnet and mediaminer:

- **Forgotten Sunrise**

- **Bombayoni**,

- **gonyos **

- and **Mandalorian**.

Hearing from you was fantastic and it definitely made my day, each and every time. Thanks!

P.P.S.: Can anybody guess which deities I'm referring to in this story?


	10. Henkersmahlzeit, part I

First of all, lots of thanks to moimoi-chan, who was so nice to review on mediaminer and give me a boost in morale. I apologize for taking so long to update, but at times, I'm an awfully slow writer. ; )

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Waking up again felt like being pulled from the grave. The soothing darkness of oblivion gave way to the glaring, unforgiving light of consciousness. Grief and guilt were squatting in the depths of his bowels like a pair of nightmarish ghouls, pulling and poking at his innards with sharp daggers and yet keeping him alive.

He very much wanted to run and hide, loose himself in madness again, anything to protect him from having to face his existence, but he simply had no power left to move. He was just too drained and too cold. So incredibly cold. There was no place to hide left anyway. Not anymore. He realized with dread that the memory and the knowledge were here to stay.

He took note of the fact that there were soft fingers gently stroking his brow. His head lay cushioned in someone's lap and a voice, a rich contralto obviously belonging to the same person as the fingers, was humming a mellow lullaby. It stood in stark contrast to the ice lurking in his heart, and despite its' soothing effect, he felt utterly miserable. Defeated.

It hit him then that his vendetta had been a sham, a lie. It wasn't God. Never had been. It had been him. He was the one to blame. He had been such a fool. Such a bigot little fraud.

_Heh._

Laughter rose in the back of his throat like a deluge, spilling from his lips like poison, rough and harsh. It echoed dully in his ears and it hurt, but he couldn't stop. Just couldn't stop. Soon his whole body was shaking, wracked by laughter and choked sobs.

It was all such a joke. Such a fucking, damn joke. And he had played it on himself.

The hands just kept stroking him, calm and comforting and he was weirdly glad for that. Not being abandoned for once was a nice, even if it didn't change anything.

He knew that there was no more point in fighting. No more point in killing. No more point in living. The purpose holding him upright even though he was shattered beyond repair, keeping him alive, driving him forever onward had evaporated like fog in the sunlight.

Unfortunately, for the first time ever, he was bloody terrified of dying.

The thought alone sent nausea rolling through his body like a ship on the verge of capsizing in a tempest. If he died, she might be waiting for him on the other side. And what would he tell her then? How could he look into her eyes and tell her that after ending her life, he had gone on killing because he was too weak and cowardly to face the truth?

"You still don't remember her name, do you?"

The question was unexpected and it hit him like a sledge-hammer. He hadn't realized that there still were pieces missing. His eye flew open.

The first thing he noticed about the woman holding and stroking him was the colour of her eyes. Green. Brilliant, laughing, emerald green. And she had freckles. Strawberry-blonde hair and a buxom figure. A white blouse and a green dress with puffed sleeves and a wide skirt. It reminded him of the picture of a dairy-maid he had once seen in one of his children's books.

"You think it doesn't matter anymore, do you? Because you think that nothing in this world would set things to rights again?" He noticed that she smelled like fresh milk too. Similar to his sister, but not quite the same. What the heck was she trying to get at?

He frowned and she ruffled his hair, in a good-natured way that didn't feel patronizing, even though it might have.

"You might be wrong, you know. It can be all right again. But if you're too hasty now, you will loose your chance to figure things out. Just keep following the path, you're nearly there. It's important."

His sister, his family and so many others were dead at his hands, all for nothing. Meaningless. Futile. And it had all come to pass because he had been weak and cowardly and stupid. His fault, his alone. The knowledge HURT. Left him bleeding to death on the inside. Broken, crushed, flayed, burning with agony and despair, eaten alive by the acidic fires of being aware, and she was implying that things weren't so BAD? That there was HOPE?

Confused irritation bloomed into fury and the touch that he had found comforting before was unbearable now. Her words incensed him. What the hell did SHE know? He had dedicated his entire existence to fighting an unholy crusade, only to discover that his promised land was a barren waste where hollow dreams crumbled to dust and contorted delusions marred the surface, black and thorny and bloody.

_Fuck this and fuck her. _

In an instant, he was on his feet too, snarling and ready to wring her neck, but she just smiled and held something out to him. Something that stopped him cold in his tracks. The vision had just pulled another trick out of its sleeve and left him floundering like a fish on land.

It was a picture. A picture of him and his sister. They were holding each other and smiling mischievously into the camera.

He remembered his mom taking that picture and he also remembered her writing their names on the back of it. His hand was shaking as he accepted the picture and turned it over.

"Breanna and Jei, 8 and 5 years old" it read.


End file.
